


One Night In A Suitcase

by bluebeholder



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Angst Snuck In Round The Back As Usual, Connected To The Great Polycule, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-23 05:06:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11982777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/pseuds/bluebeholder
Summary: Newt and Queenie spend the night in the suitcase together. What else is there to say?





	One Night In A Suitcase

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KatieHavok](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatieHavok/gifts).



> In connection to [this chapter of Schrödinger's Stories](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11649948/chapters/27063282), in which Queenie and Newt spend the night in the suitcase. I was going to write something _short_. Pathological inability to write anything short, however, has come to bite me again…
> 
> There’s a sort of Hamilton joke in here. Bonus points if you find it, it’s…obscure. :3

 Newt hasn’t been this nervous since the day he first encountered a Lethifold.

“It’s not much—I haven’t got a lot of space, since I don’t usually sleep in the case now Percival’s trying to get me to sleep in a real bed regularly—sorry about that—”

“Newt, honey,” Queenie says, stepping in front of him and looking up at him, “you don’t need to apologize. I _wanted_ to come down here, okay?”

Newt reminds himself that air is seventy-eight point one percent nitrogen, twenty-one percent oxygen, one percent argon, point-zero-four percent carbon dioxide, and he needs to breathe it. “I don’t quite understand why.”

Queenie sits down on the narrow bed, flippantly kicking off her heels, leaving her in stockings alone. They’re in his little shed, the part reserved for living instead of study. Outside, the artificial night has set in; overhead, out of the suitcase, everyone else in bed. Newt has no excuse. “You don’t need an excuse,” Queenie says. “I’m just here to sleep. Unless.”

Unless. That’s quite the loaded word.

“It is not loaded!” Queenie says, rolling her eyes at him.

Cautiously, Newt sits down beside her. He toes off his shoes, feeling a shiver of anticipation. “It is,” he says softly. “Usually—when we all switch—it’s because—”

“Because what? We find each other attractive and want to try it out?” Queenie sets her hand on top of his and Newt shivers. He’s thought about it, of course, what man in this house _hasn’t_? And all the other three have gone ahead with it. Still. “I won’t do anything you don’t want and you know after the day I’ve had that I’d like sleep just as much.”

Newt considers. She won’t blame him, if he decides to skip out, she really won’t. But he’d blame himself for not giving this a go. “No,” he says softly, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. “You can see how I feel.”

“I can,” Queenie says, tracing patterns up his wrist and over his forearm. Newt shivers. The touch is gentle and anything but tentative. “That’s why I came down here with you. ’Cause you want to see what I’m like. You’ve thought about taking off my dress much as Jacob or Percival.”

“It’s not just that!” Newt protests. “You’re…you. You’re…” He’s not sure how to express what he’s thinking, but Queenie saves it.

“You trust me,” she says, fingers trailing over the sleeve rolled at his elbow and all the way up to his shoulder. “You like that I can read you even when you can’t find words. I’m safe.”

Slowly, Newt nods. He doesn’t have to say anything. That’s what he likes. Even with Tina, he’s got to say things, to explain himself. Queenie doesn’t ask that of him.

When her hand reaches the collar of his shirt, Queenie pauses. She gives him a long, inquiring look, and then without further ado twists and slides onto his lap, sitting astride him at the edge of the bed. Newt puts one arm around her slim waist, holding her up as she unbuttons first his vest and then his shirt. He has to let go of her then, divesting himself of shirt and vest and finally undershirt, rather grateful that he’d switched to American-style undergarments after too much time around his friends.

As Queenie rests her hands on his chest he’s suddenly self-conscious about his scars. Percival’s got so many, and so does Credence. Jacob’s not a problem because they don’t really do…this. And Tina is Tina, used to scars and hard edges. But Queenie—

“They’re _incredible_ ,” she says, tracing the line of one of the worse scars, a spot where a Manticore had nearly speared him through the shoulder. “You’ve got a whole story on your skin.”

“Oh,” Newt says, wide-eyed. He still feels torn and ungainly, which is fairly normal for him, but it’s not bad, when Queenie’s looking at him.

Queenie leans up to kiss him on the cheek, and impulsively—because what has he to lose now?—Newt turns to meet her. He loses himself in her soft lips, eyes fluttering shut. He doesn’t like kissing much, it feels like being trapped sometimes, and Queenie of course knows. She doesn’t push, doesn’t demand anything except simple touch.

“Your turn,” she murmurs when they break apart for air, and slides off his lap onto the bed. Newt follows, drawing his leg up beneath him so he can turn. She’s not in anything complicated, just a simple wrap dress that ties easily at the side. He pulls the careful bow free quickly, and she shrugs it off the rest of the way, leaving herself in just her lingerie. And that’s where Newt has to stop and stare.

Tina, it must be said, is not the most feminine of women. She likes practicality, things that don’t take twenty minutes to put on and take off. And Newt’s experience with women is…limited, all things considered, so looking at Queenie is rather stunning. Her chemise is pink, some soft fine fabric that Newt can’t name, embellished with what must be yards of lace. Her corset holds her, under her breasts all the way down over her hips, and garters hold up her stockings, visible only where her chemise has fallen up her leg. Newt has _never_ seen anything like this before.

“You look—lovely,” he says, aware that his voice is rather hoarse.

“Thanks,” she says in a slightly small voice. “Didn’t expect you to like all this.”

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Newt admits, running one hand tentatively over her side. She hums and leans into the touch.

He moves before he can think about it, nerves prickling everywhere, reaching out to pull the laces on the corset free. Queenie watches him with dark eyes and for half a second Newt thinks he feels the touch of her mind on his. Slowly, he unlaces the whole corset, drawing it out as long as he can, tracing the newly-revealed chemise, slightly crumpled from a day under the corset. Newt smooths it out as he goes, his touch eliciting small gasps from Queenie. The sound sends heat and tension between his legs and suddenly Newt’s nerves disappear.

He pulls the last of the lacing free and unfastens the garters so that Queenie can shove the corset aside. “Well?” she asks, voice husky with desire. “Aren’t you going to join me?”

“Right,” Newt says, remembering suddenly that he’s still half dressed. And he has to stand up, unless he wants to essentially just flop around like a particularly tragic fish; Queenie waits and watches, looking for all the world like a woman out of a fairy tale as she lies there in Newt’s bed.

“You look real wonderful,” Queenie says, looking him up and down, gaze heavy as if she’s really touching him. And maybe she is.

The thought makes Newt go hot and cold all over, and unprompted he leans in to kiss her again, bracing himself over her and bracketing her with his hands and knees. She gasps into the kiss, shifting beneath him. Between his legs he can feel her hips twisting, already looking for him, and that—having Queenie right there, wanting him, wanting _him_ —is enough to practically shove him over the edge right there.

“Not without me!” Queenie says with a laugh. She tugs ineffectually at the hem of her chemise, caught beneath her. Newt has just enough presence of mind to scramble back as she sits up and pulls it over her head, tossing it aside.

It’s not the first time in his life that Newt’s had his jaw literally drop, but it’s still a novel experience. Left there in just her sheer blue polka-dot stockings, she’s something out of a _painting_ , fantastically beautiful. Tentatively, he reaches out to touch Queenie’s pale skin, smooth beneath his rough and callused hands. She shivers as he caresses her sides, feeling the curve of her ribs and the softness of her stomach, the slight jut of her hips, all ordinarily hidden under a corset.

“You’re amazing,” he says, looking up and doing his best to look her in the eye.

Queenie brushes his hair off his forehead, sliding her hand down to cup his jaw. “So’re you,” she says, “even if you don’t want to see it.”

Newt can’t find a good way to answer, and so he doesn’t try. He moves forward instead, kissing the line of her neck, her fingers tangling in his hair as he nips at her collarbone and draws out a small raw sound of desire. At her gasped direction, Newt turns his attention to her breasts, taking her apart with teeth and tongue and fingers. He’s good at this, at single-minded and delicate tasks, at finding the exact right spot where a light touch will make Queenie’s back arch and her breath stutter.

Really, he’s never seen Queenie discomposed before. She’s always perfect, always put-together in a way that no one else can seem to match. They’re all good—it’s one of the things that they all have in common—but Queenie only blushes when she wants to, only stumbles over words when she intends to, only shows signs of distress when she means to. Seeing her like this, her words broken and body moving of its own accord, is the most singularly arousing thing Newt’s maybe ever seen.

“Newt Scamander,” Queenie says raggedly, when he pauses to compose himself, “if you don’t get between my legs right now I will _never_ forgive you.” He can’t help a laugh at that, and Queenie despite her smile turns cherry-red.

They’re both more than ready. Her fingernails dig into his shoulders as he slides into her. It feels like he fits perfectly, like they’re meant to be. For a moment they’re completely still, breathing in unison.

And then Newt has a horribly belated thought which makes _Queenie_ laugh. The movement makes her clench around him and the thought is very nearly knocked right out of Newt’s head. “I’ve slept with three different guys since moving in here,” she says, lightly knocking the side of her head against his. “I ain’t the kind of girl to just forget about contraceptive charms.”

“Thank _Merlin_ ,” Newt says fervently. He’s been assured many times that he’d be a wonderful family man and he doesn’t doubt it, but just now he’s got a few too many creatures to worry about to think a baby’s a good idea.

There’s another brief moment of stillness, and then, “Are we doing this?” Queenie murmurs.

Newt doesn’t dignify that with a verbal response. He only moves, thrusting into her without waiting any more. She rocks up to meet him and he bites off a moan. His mind’s gone hazy, the only things of importance the tight heat around him and the slim body writhing under him. Queenie’s nails are points of searing pain in his shoulders. Even as his rhythm breaks down, she stays with him, a miracle of Legilimency.

It must be Legilimency, too, that gets them to completion at the same time. It’s perfectly synchronized, and for a terrifying second Newt is _aware_. He can feel Queenie’s blazing blank thought, sense his own climax _and hers_ and it’s maybe the hardest he’s ever come in his life, stars exploding behind his eyes, hot and cold surging over his body in ecstasy—

He’s not really sure what happens after that.

Of course Queenie recovers first, because she’s done this before. Newt’s next conscious thought is that he’s lying next to her now, not on top of her. He looks at her, hair tousled and body still flushed, and thinks that he’s rarely seen anything so beautiful. “I thought I’d crushed you,” he says fuzzily.

She laughs and runs her fingers through his hair. “Takes a lot more than that,” she says, voice still husky. “You feeling all right?”

“Better than all right,” Newt says, shaking himself. He pulls her close, the contact somehow easier when there’s nothing separating their bodies. Queenie folds into him with a small, contented sigh. She’s of the perfect height to fit neatly in his arms, head tucked under his chin. It takes Newt a moment to sort out where his wand’s gone, but when he finally catches hold of it he flicks it to turn out the lights. Queenie appears to have already handled clean-up, so that’s a small mercy.

“We should do this again,” Queenie says, punctuating the statement with a light kiss to his chest.

He kisses the top of her head. “We should,” he agrees, and he can feel her smile as he starts imagining all the _other_ things they could do together.

**Author's Note:**

> Because it isn’t one of mine without excessive research…look. By 1895 the composition of the atmosphere was known. Newt is a Scientist, okay, there’s no way that he isn’t aware of relevant Muggle Science for his discipline. Hence him knowing this stuff. Shhhhhhhhhh. (I rounded the decimals. So sue me.) 
> 
> Also, a stockings note—Queenie is a woman of Style and in the 1920s that meant patterned stockings. :D


End file.
